


Confession

by zelda_zee



Series: Sacrament [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 17:12:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5751466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zelda_zee/pseuds/zelda_zee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis thought that maybe this was the hardest thing he had ever done, to admit his weakness and his failure before his friends and ask for their help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Confession

They traveled southward all afternoon, until the sun dipped low in the west and they stopped just to the side of the road in a little clearing within a stand of evergreen trees. Aramis dismounted with difficulty, wincing at the ache in his thighs. His legs were trembling, and for a mortifying moment he feared they would not hold him. His back felt wrong, stiff and tight and pain stung him every time he moved. He waited until he felt steady enough, then limped over to a fallen tree trunk and sank onto it, sitting motionless as he tried to regain his strength while around him the others bustled about, setting up camp.

“S’all right,” Porthos said, laying a light hand on Aramis’ shoulder. “Just rest here. We’ll take care of it.”

“No,” Aramis protested. “I’ll help.” But Porthos told him again to stay put, and in the end, he did.

He hadn’t realized how much strength he had lost. The months of relative inactivity had exacted a heavy toll. He knew his friends were worried that he wouldn't be able to keep up, and he couldn’t blame them. They were going to war, and he could barely endure an afternoon of riding. He was unfit, malnourished and compromised by his injuries. The latter would heal in a few days, but the rest would take longer, and Aramis had to admit that at present he would not be able to hold his own in a fight.

Soon they had a fire burning. Aramis hadn’t even realized he’d grown chilled, and he stretched out his hands to warm them. Porthos and d’Artagnan had begun preparing a simple supper, pulling bread and dried meat and fruit out of saddlebags when Athos walked up to him and softly nudged his shoulder. “Come,” he said, nodding toward a copse of trees bordering their camping spot.

Aramis, still not entirely steady, rose slowly to his feet and followed him. “Where are we going?”

Athos did not reply, but once they were somewhat concealed from the others’ view he turned to Aramis and simply waited, looking at him with a patient, steady gaze that Aramis was at a loss to interpret.

“What?”

Athos gestured. “Let me see.”

Aramis recoiled slightly, his arms rising instinctively to cross his chest. “Let you see what?”

“What you’ve done to yourself. I’m not trying to pry,” Athos added, when Aramis took a step back. “I need to know if you’re fit for combat.”

“I am perfectly able to fight,” Aramis claimed, despite his misgivings. He had no intention of admitting his doubts aloud.

“Perhaps,” Athos said. He again gestured toward Aramis, who now understood that Athos meant for him to remove his coat and shirt.

When Aramis made no action to comply, Athos added, in a gentler tone. “It’s all right. I just want to see how bad it is.”

“I – no. No. That is, I –” He couldn’t articulate why, but he didn’t want to reveal what he had done to himself. That he had needed such extreme measures felt shameful; having failed despite them was doubly humiliating. He looked down, staring at the leaf-strewn ground. “Athos,” he said softly. “Please.”

He heard a long sigh and then Athos’ hand was on the back of his neck. It startled him, because of all of them, Athos was the least inclined to offer physical comfort, but Aramis accepted it gratefully and leaned forward until he could rest his forehead on Athos’ shoulder. There was a stone in his throat, hard and painful, and he tried to swallow it down, but it stayed there. He pressed his forehead harder into Athos’ shoulder and squeezed his eyes shut, feeling the futility of the past months threaten to overwhelm him.

“I tried to atone,” he said, his voice rough and choked. “I thought, if I could just, just debase myself enough, or – or – that if I prayed long enough and hard enough that God would hear me, that he would make me a better man – that I could be cleansed of my sins and – and that the vain, thoughtless, selfish man I was – that I _am_ would die, and something – something better – _someone_ better – might take his place.”

His eyes stung, but no tears fell. Perhaps he had cried all his tears kneeling on the cold stone floor of his cell in the abbey during those endless, sleepless nights he had spent in prayer.

“Shhh,” Athos said, as if to a skittish horse. “Easy, Aramis.” He stroked Aramis’ hair, rubbing back and forth over the short strands.

“But nothing worked,” Aramis said, grabbing handfuls Athos’ coat and raising his head, though he could not make himself meet Athos’ eyes. “I tried everything I could think of, and nothing worked. God never heard me. My prayers were empty, my suffering was pointless. My sins are still mine alone to bear and I am still the same man, no better, no different, than I was before.”

Athos took Aramis’ face in his hands, gently but firmly. “Look at me." Aramis forced himself to look, fearing what he would see, but there was no pity or disgust or coldness on Athos’ face. He saw only sadness, and a deep understanding.

“That man who you sought with such dedication to kill – that vain, selfish man – he is much more than that, Aramis. He is brave, and loyal, and despite what you think, generous. He can be selfless, as well as selfish. That man is my friend, and I would be very sorry to go through this life without him at my side.”

Tears did come then. They rose and spilled over and there was nothing he could do to quell them. Aramis turned away to wipe his face with his sleeve. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled. “I – I fear I am not quite myself at the moment.”

Athos made a quiet humming noise. He looked away, idly scanning the trees, giving Aramis a moment to collect himself. “Nevertheless,” he said eventually, “I do still need to see what state you are in.”

Aramis turned to him but made no move to comply. Athos waited a moment, then walked up to him and unceremoniously began unbuckling Aramis’ belt. Aramis grabbed his hands to stop him and Athos’ eyes locked onto his with an implacable stare that Aramis knew far too well. He sighed in defeat and let his hands fall to his sides again as Athos continued. A strange and almost dreamlike sensation overtook Aramis as he stood passively and allowed Athos to remove first his belts and sash, placing his weapons on the ground, then to unbutton his coat and push it off his shoulders, tugging the arms free. Clearly, there was no reason that Aramis could not remove his own clothes, even if it would have been painful. Perhaps he let Athos do it because he felt so very weak and tired, and Athos was being so gentle with him, and it was lovely really, to be touched in this careful and kindly way after such a long time with no one’s touch upon his skin, barely even his own.

Athos unlaced his shirt, tugging it free of Aramis’ breeches and went to lift it, but Aramis’ flinch and the sharp hiss he made as the fabric pulled at his back stopped him. The welts had opened and bled during the ride and then dried, for his shirt was fairly well stuck to him from the feel of it.

Athos stepped around him and his low whistle and the muttered curse that followed it indicated that Aramis must present an ugly picture.

He felt Athos lift a corner of his shirt and tug gently at a place low on his back where it was sticking. “Just rip it off,” he said, gritting his teeth in grim anticipation.

“I will not,” Athos sounded affronted at the suggestion. “That would only exacerbate the damage. We need to proceed carefully, though I warn you that even so, it is going to be unpleasant.”

“Oh my God!” said a voice behind them. Aramis spun to find d’Artagnan staring at him with a horrified expression. “Aramis, what happened to you?! Who did this?”

“Who did what?” asked Porthos, striding through the trees, sword already half out of its scabbard at the sound of d’Artagnan’s exclamation. “What’s going on?”

Aramis gazed up at the treetops swaying in the breeze, the sky beyond purpling with the oncoming evening. A star winked at him from on high, and for a moment he wished most fervently to be on it.

This, he suspected, was not going to go well.

“His back,” d’Artagnan said, looking stricken. “It’s all bloody. Aramis, who has harmed you? Did they do this at the abbey?”

Porthos’ brows lowered and the corners of his mouth turned down in a scowl that boded ill for whoever had caused it. Who, Aramis considered, was actually himself.

“Turn around,” Porthos demanded. “Let me see.”

Aramis glanced at Athos, who shrugged helplessly. Aramis sighed, for there was nothing to be done, and turned.

For a moment the silence was complete. Then, “Damn them to hell!” Porthos cried. “I knew it!”

Aramis turned back to face him, but before he could speak, Porthos continued.

“Those damned monks didn’t fool me for a minute. Acting so pious, when they’ve been beating you and starving you and trying to keep us from finding out! I’ll show them what happens when you mess with a Musketeer!”

“You’d better tell him, before he rides back there and murders them,” Athos said.

Aramis heart sank, for he knew that trying to explain this to Porthos was an undertaking doomed to failure, growing up as he had, wild on the streets and untutored in the Church, and who now only adopted an attitude of grudging respect for Aramis’ religious inclinations out of consideration for his feelings.

“Porthos, wait.” Something in Aramis’ voice or demeanor arrested Porthos mid-rant. "What you see… it was self-inflicted. Please do not blame the monks, or Father Abbot. They had nothing to do with it.”

D’Artagnan was staring at him wide-eyed, his brows up around his hairline. In contrast, Porthos’ had lowered even further, and his mouth had turned down as well in a perfect portrait of unhappiness. Aramis watched emotions play across Porthos’ face, a gathering storm that culminated in a roar of anger and frustration.

Porthos turned away as if he could not bear the sight of him. “What the everlasting _fuck_?!!”

Aramis winced, and braced himself for worse, but d’Artagnan interrupted before Porthos could say anything more.

“But _why_ , Aramis? Why would you do such a terrible thing to yourself?”

Aramis toed at the dirt, trying to think of an answer that would satisfy. In the sudden quiet, he could hear the twittering of birds and the sound of rushing water nearby, the rustling of leaves overhead even though the wind did not reach them in the shelter of the trees.

“Perhaps if you bring to mind the events that precipitated my retirement to the abbey,” he began cautiously. Speaking of it aloud was still painful. “The consequences of my actions were very nearly…” He stopped, stymied by the memories of how close a call it had been for all of them. He tried again. “There are _things_ inside of me – impulses, or, or, compulsions that I cannot control – that I am not in the habit of even attempting to control – and I sought to purge them. I wanted to feel – to feel –” _Clean_ , he wanted to say. _Worthy._ But he could not speak the words. It was too laughable, a man like him wishing to be pure.

“You great, bloody idiot,” Porthos said, rounding on him. He stalked over to Aramis and grabbed him by the arms, giving him a sound shake. “This!” He pointed to Aramis, looking around at Athos and d’Artagnan. “ _This_ is why he doesn’t get to go off on his own. It’s always like this, some disaster brought about by his – his…”

 _Stupidity_ , Aramis filled in to himself, but Porthos did not say it, instead biting his lip on whatever word he was going to use.

“Never again, do you hear me?” Porthos said, glaring at Aramis. “It was a bad idea from the start. Never should’ve let you go – and I _won’t_ if you ever try it again.”

Aramis raised his hands, trying to placate him, but it was too soon and Porthos was not yet of a mind to be placated. “Turn around,” he said roughly, pushing at his shoulder, and Aramis reluctantly obeyed.

“My God, what a mess.” Porthos sighed in disgust. Aramis felt a tug at the fabric stuck to his skin, not as gentle Athos had been and no more successful. “What were you _thinking_?”

“Well, I wasn’t thinking that you three were going to show up and drag me away,” Aramis retorted, stung. “I _thought_ that I would be spending the rest of my life in the abbey and, believe me, the only thing that made that thought bearable was beating myself bloody every night.”

Athos snorted. Porthos gripped his shoulder, then squeezed his arm, assessing.

“And you’re so skinny. Good God, what’re we going to do with you?”

“He’ll heal,” d’Artagnan said. “I’m sure by the time we reach the border he’ll be fine. Or, mostly fine, at least.”

“Never should have let you go,” Porthos grumbled. “I knew better. I knew it would lead to no good. I should’ve stopped you.”

“I needed to,” Aramis said, turning. “I made a vow to God.” He rubbed his forehead, between his brows, where he could feel an ache taking hold.

“Well,” Porthos said. “You know what I think of _that_.”

“So you need not say it,” Athos interjected. “I have some ointment in my saddlebags, bring it here, if you please. D’Artagnan, would you get me some warm water? We'll need rather a lot of it, I should think.”

“Thank you,” Aramis whispered as Porthos and d’Artagnan went to do Athos’ bidding.

“You know it’s not over,” Athos said. “They will want more of an explanation.”

“And you?” Aramis asked.

Athos met his eyes, then looked away. “I suppose I understand it better than they. What did you use, a switch?” Aramis nodded. “You see, I use a different tool, that is all.”

“Athos –”

“I am afraid you will have to remove your breeches if you don’t want them to get soaked,” Athos said, putting an end to that direction of the conversation, and Aramis let it go.

He was wondering if perhaps it would be preferable to go through the chilly night with wet breeches than to stand naked and shivering in only his shirt, when Athos added, “I was being polite, but that wasn’t actually a request. Off with them.”

And so Aramis did stand, naked and shivering, as Athos poured warm water over his back that cooled quickly, leaving him wet and freezing, and carefully peeled his blood-soaked shirt away from his ravaged skin. It was a slow, laborious and painful undertaking, but Athos staunchly refused to hurry the process, claiming that he would not be responsible for worsening an already deplorable state of affairs.

D’Artagnan had retreated to tend the fire and finish preparing supper. Aramis wished that Porthos would join him, but he seemed disinclined to do so, instead standing to the side and watching silently, arms crossed at his chest and his features deeply etched by a scowl. He had said very little since the whole revelation, and it was making Aramis nervous, but he was distracted by the agony of the shirt removal process and his resolve not to betray himself by sound or expression. Finally, Porthos turned away and stalked over to the fire and started poking at it with a stick as if he meant to cause it grievous injury.

“There we are,” Athos said, peeling the last bit of blood-stiff shirt away and lifting it over Aramis’ head. “It’s done.”

“Thank God.” Aramis sagged with relief. “I never meant to be such a bother. I am truly sorry for your trouble.”

“There’s been a time or two when you helped me out of some ridiculous situation I’d got myself into, if I recall correctly. It will even out in the end.” He held up Aramis’ shirt to show him. “That’s ruined, I’m afraid. Have you another?”

“In my bag. I’ll just –” Aramis took one step and wobbled on his feet like a newborn colt. “Maybe I should just sit for a moment, actually.”

Athos steadied him as he struggled back into his smallclothes and breeches, then helped him to a nearby boulder, where he could at least lean, if not sit. His vision swam and he suddenly found it nearly impossible to hold his head up.

“I’ll get your shirt,” Athos said. “Just wait here and try not to fall over.”

Athos returned with Aramis’ shirt and strips of clean linen which he must have raided from their battle-ready medical kit. Aramis leaned into the boulder while Athos carefully applied ointment to the welts on his back, then did a surprisingly neat job of bandaging him, and helped him into his shirt. Once he was put together again, they made their way slowly to the fire, Athos following closely behind in case Aramis stumbled. D’Artagnan looked up from stirring a pot of liquid and gave him a smile.

“I made you some broth,” he said, then added apologetically. “Such as it is. There wasn’t much to work with, and I’m not much of a cook.”

“Thank you,” Aramis said. “I’m sure it’s delicious.” He gingerly lowered himself onto a log and as soon as the scent of food hit him he realized he was ravenous. He wasn’t sure when he had last eaten, and while deprivation had been his norm at the abbey, it suddenly was unthinkable that he not fill his belly immediately, and he reached eagerly for the bowl d’Artagnan held out.

The soup was barely more than hot water with a few bits of meat and onion floating in it, but to Aramis the flavor was divine. He drank it down straight from the bowl, ignoring the spoon still in d’Artagnan’s outstretched hand, then held it out for a refill.

“Careful,” said Athos from where he squatted a few feet away, stowing the ointment and unused bandages back into a leather case. “How long has it been since you’ve eaten?”

“Three – maybe four days?” Aramis replied uncertainly.

Porthos, who had been silent to this point, snorted in disgust, then mumbled something under his breath that Aramis did not need to hear in order to understand.

“Try to take it slow,” Athos said.

Aramis drank down the second bowl more cautiously, sipping carefully while the rest of them ate. It was quiet but for the sounds of the fire and the men chewing as they devoured bread and dried meat and a few small, dark red apples the monks had given them.

Aramis found his eyes growing heavy, his head drooping as exhaustion overwhelmed him. The third or fourth time he nodded off, Athos rose and, bending down, lifted him bodily to his feet.

“To bed with you,” he said, leading Aramis a short distance from the fire. He made quick work of laying out a bedroll for him, despite Aramis’ protestations, waiting as Aramis slowly and carefully lowered himself to the blanket, then taking one foot after the other and tugging off his boots.

“Thank you, my friend,” Aramis said.

Athos nodded, following the direction of Aramis’ gaze where it had been drawn to the two figures seated near the fire.

“They’re angry at me.” Aramis sighed.

“No.”

“Porthos is angry at me,” he clarified.

“He’ll get over it.”

He drowsily watched Athos walk back over and take a seat beside his companions, and it was not long before the sounds of the crackling fire and the low murmur of familiar voices lulled him to sleep.

~ * ~

The morning found Aramis in even sorrier shape than the night before. The ride, short as it had been, had left him with soreness that made him wince as he struggled to his feet, and sleeping on the ground had added aches in seemingly every joint, and, he thought miserably, his back must be starting to heal because it was tight and itchy. Taken together, his various complaints promised a thoroughly uncomfortable day in the saddle.

“A hard night?” d’Artagnan asked from where he was seated beside the fire.

“I’ve got no padding anymore,” Aramis said ruefully, cautiously trying to stretch some of the soreness out of his muscles. “I think I felt every pebble and twig I was laying on.”

“You’ve gotten soft,” d’Artagnan teased.

“Hardly.” Aramis came close enough to the fire to let its warmth seep into his muscles. “Monastic life isn’t for the faint of heart, I assure you.”

“I wouldn’t know,” d’Artagnan said. “And I hope to never find out.”

Porthos and Athos appeared from the direction of the stream with damp hair, having apparently just returned from their morning ablutions.

“Good, you’re up,” Athos said. “We should depart soon, but not,” he arched a brow at Aramis, “before I take care of a piece of very urgent business.” He knelt down to search through his saddlebag for a moment, then turned toward Aramis with a knife in his hand.

Aramis stared at the blade, then at Athos. “What are you proposing to do with that?”

“I’m cutting your beard,” Athos said, testing the blade's sharpness on his thumb.

“You don’t have to do that,” Aramis protested.

“Oh, believe me, I do,” Athos insisted. “The rest of us have to look at you, and that beard is an offense to our eyes. Sit.” He pointed to the log they had been using as a bench.

So Aramis sat very still while Athos trimmed his beard to his satisfaction. Since they lacked a looking glass, he had to take his friends’ word for it that it was now as it had been before the abbey. As he smoothed his fingers over the neat goatee he had to admit that he felt a bit more like himself. His hair, though. He reached up, fingering its shortened length, probably no longer than a the width of a livre. Cutting it had symbolized his renouncement of vanity, but now that his monastic life was ended the only significance of his shorn locks was that his head was likely to get cold.

D’Artagnan caught his eye. “It will grow back,” he said reassuringly.

“I know,” Aramis replied. “It doesn’t matter.”

D’Artagnan gave him a knowing look. “If you say so.” He handed Aramis a piece of hard biscuit and a cup of what turned out to be weak and bitter coffee. “Better eat that. Athos wants to get underway.”

Aramis dunked the biscuit in his cup and tried not to wolf it down. He was still hungry from his recent privations, last night’s broth having only slightly dulled the edge.

The day went by in a blur. Aramis rode behind Porthos again, and again he was grateful for his solid bulk when he flagged in the saddle and slumped against Porthos’ broad back. As they rode southward, the wooded landscape opened out into rolling fields cut by small, winding streams. They passed through a few villages, stopping in one for a lunch of surprisingly good soup with bread and cheese and juicy green pears, washed down by a flagon of sweet wine. For the first time, Aramis ate his fill and if he had to spend overlong in the privy before remounting, he deemed it a small price to pay for the novel sensation of a full belly.

He spent most of the day trying to unravel his thoughts about the unexpected circumstance he now found himself in, returned to the world and all its sins and temptations, and him not greatly altered from the man who had retired from it not even a year ago. It had been a great blow to realize that his actions had brought about the death of one lover and had come close to doing the same for a second, not to mention jeopardizing his son, and Constance and… oh, damn, basically everyone he cared about.

One thing Aramis knew with utter certainty was that it could not happen again. He would not be the cause of such wholesale misery, regardless of the cost to himself.

The crux of it was, he did not trust himself.

And so his thoughts went, around and around. _I must be strong, but I am not strong enough. I must resist temptation, but I have never been able to resist temptation. I must think before I act, but I act without thinking while in complete ignorance that I am doing so._

In the end he grew so annoyed with himself that he swore aloud and had to reassure Porthos that nothing was amiss. But Porthos may not have believed him because it was not long before he urged Athos to call a halt for the night and they stopped soon after, finding a stand of old oak trees with a pond just beyond, and a stone fire ring already built by previous travelers.

As Aramis tended to the horses and helped to set up camp an idea began to form in his mind. It was not an idea that pleased him, but it was, he thought, an idea that might work. As a solution to his dilemma it was extreme, but he felt that extreme measures were warranted. And truly, was it any more extreme than locking himself away from the world, beating himself bloody and refusing food for days on end?

After dinner was eaten and they had settled down with a wineskin to pass between them and enough wood to keep the fire going for the evening, Aramis took a deep breath and said, “I have something to ask of you.”

His friends looked at each other, then at him. “Of which of us?” d’Artagnan asked.

“Well, of all of you, actually,” Aramis said nervously.

Porthos raised his eyebrows. D'Artagnan added another log to the fire. Athos took a long pull from the wineskin and handed it to Aramis as if he knew that he would need it.

"Go on," he said.

“I know what I am,” Aramis began, speaking slowly. “I know my nature. I know it now better than I have ever known it before. Indeed, perhaps I know it now for the first time in my life. I am a thoughtless, heedless man." He hesitated, searching for the right words. "I've left a trail of ruined women, angry men and broken vows behind me, and the truth is that I barely gave them a thought. I don’t act out of malice, but… perhaps that doesn’t matter. I seduced them regardless of their station, women and…” he took a deep breath and steeled himself to present the unvarnished truth. “And, yes, men as well. I know you’ve suspected, and it’s true that I have taken men as my paramours from time to time. I treat them no differently than the women – I woo them, I conquer their scruples, I bed them, I leave them and I forget them all too soon. I am a danger to anyone I decide upon,” he laughed humorlessly, “and I don’t really give it a thought. I just do what I like, take what I want. I cannot help myself. It is an enticement that I cannot resist, to conquer whatever the challenge is before me.”

He sighed tiredly. It was exhausting to talk about it. His hard-won self-knowledge gave him not the least bit of satisfaction. Indeed, he would give anything to return to his careless ways and forget all about it. But, a woman had died because of him, and he suspected that Marguerite was not the first. And the Queen, the Dauphin, they had been endangered, his friends had been compromised… and all because he had done what he had always done – followed his heart – or his prick, it made no difference whether he couched it in romantic or crude terms; both were accustomed to determining his actions far more than his conscience or his morals or his faith.

“I cannot go on as I have,” Aramis said, “but I have thought on it long and hard and I do not believe I can change on my own. I – I need help. God knows how you have stood by me through the years, especially you, Porthos. You were the first real friend that I ever had, have I told you that? No? It’s true. I’m grateful for that, even if I don’t show it.”

Porthos harrumphed, shifting on his seat. “You make it sound like it’s been all one-sided. You do plenty for us, Aramis. You’ve been a good friend too.”

“I could have gotten you all executed,” Aramis stated flatly.

“We’ve all had our moments,” d'Artagnan said. “I think we can agree that each of us has endangered the others at times.”

“But.” Aramis held up a hand to stop him. “But I am a problem in a way that none of you are.” He looked at each of them in turn. “When any of you have endangered the rest of us it was because circumstances arose that caused it – with me, it is my very nature that endangers everyone I know! Safe in the abbey, removed from temptation, perhaps not. But now, here I am, unleashed once again upon the world.” He gestured widely, encompassing them all, the forest, the sky. “And I have not changed. All that I have done, all that I have tried… none of it made a difference. I know myself well enough to know it's true. And I cannot go on as I did in the past. I cannot do it, not now that I understand how others suffer by it.” He dropped his arms, letting them dangle at his sides. “I see now that I am unable to govern myself." He took a deep breath. "And so I must ask you to govern me.”

“What?” Porthos said, staring at him as if he’d started suddenly speaking Greek. “What are you saying?”

Both d’Artagnan and Athos watched him with equally puzzled faces.

“I know it is a strange request,” Aramis said. His face was burning hot, but he trusted that in the firelight it would not be noticeable. “But please, _please_ , try to understand. I am – afraid of, of myself.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and hid his face in his hands. “God help me,” he muttered. This was even harder than he’d imagined.

“If I bind myself to rely on your word,” he continued, daring to look up at his friends again. “If you would consent to – to either approve or forbid me to, ah. To proceed, when I. That is, if I were to be in pursuit, um, of - of someone.”

“Do you mean if you were in... _romantic_ pursuit?” Athos ventured.

“Yes!” Aramis exclaimed, relieved beyond measure that one of them had grasped his meaning. “Yes. I would be bound to abide by your decision before – before things reached a point of, er, involvement.”

“If I understand you,” Athos said. “You intend that we,” he gestured to encompass d’Artagnan, Porthos and himself, “would decide with whom you should engage in romantic liaisons?”

“No, not exactly,” Aramis said. “I was thinking rather that you would have a power of veto over liaisons which I had determined to pursue."

“We would give you thumbs up or thumbs down?” Porthos said. 

“Yes. Precisely.”

"That presumes you would tell us ahead of time," Porthos said, laughing and shaking his head. He caught Athos' eye and Aramis saw a look pass between them. He wasn't sure of its meaning, but Porthos stopped laughing.

“And you would actually listen to us?” d’Artagnan asked doubtfully. “I hope you won't be offended, Aramis, but when it comes to love, you can’t expect that what others say will make a difference. Look at Constance and me. There was every reason for us to deny ourselves, and we tried, we really did, but it was no use. Look at…” he glanced at Athos, who was staring into the fire. “Look at - at anyone. No one makes wise decisions when it comes to love.”

“I am not speaking of _love_ ,” Aramis said. “It is not love that compels me, and well you know it.”

“Aramis, do you realize what you’re suggesting?” Athos asked. “You are offering to willingly surrender your autonomy in matters of the heart.”

“And of the bedroom,” Porthos added.

“I don’t believe this,” d’Artagnan said. “Aramis, you say this now, but in the heat of the moment you would never be guided by our counsel.”

“Plus, you’re sneaky,” said Porthos.

“Obviously,” Athos said under his breath, giving Aramis a sidelong look.

“You’d find a way around us if we told you something you didn’t like.”

“Which we would,” said Athos. “Often.”

“I would bind myself to your word by oath,” said Aramis. “I would place my trust in you wholly and promise to – to –” He felt his face warm again, and gave thanks for the night and the firelight which would hide it. “To obey you,” he said, not quite able to meet their eyes. He was making himself, in one very specific way, subordinate, promising to be ruled by them. It went against his pride and his sense of dignity and he thought maybe this was the hardest thing he had ever done, to admit his weakness and his failure before his friends and ask for their help.

They sat in silence for a moment, staring into the fire, each absorbed in his own thoughts.

“Is this what you truly want, Aramis?” Athos asked finally.

“I don’t know!” Aramis cried. “I don’t know. I think, maybe, it is what I need. I can’t bear to go on as I have. I must be certain that I am not going ruin the lives of those I care about. I need to be sure, and I cannot trust myself because I have proven to be untrustworthy! I need… I need…”

“Rules,” said Athos.

“Yes!” Aramis almost laughed with gratitude that Athos had said it for him. “Yes. I need rules.”

“And consequences if they are broken,” Athos added quietly but with certainty.

Aramis exhaled sharply. He ignored the embarrassment and made himself say, “Yes, there must be consequences.”

“You’d let us be in charge of you like that?” d’Artagnan asked, sounding unconvinced.

“If you don’t abuse my trust,” Aramis said. “Or mock me, or speak of it to anyone beside the four of us.” He burned at the thought of anyone else knowing, of anyone laughing at him. “I could not abide that. You must promise me. But other than that, yes, I would let you do that. I _beg_ you, my friends. Please, do this for me.”

Porthos stood suddenly, and strode toward Aramis. He could not tell from the expression on Porthos’ face what he meant to do and he rose with trepidation to meet him.

“I’ll do it,” Porthos declared. “You need never beg me for anything, Aramis.” One big hand pulled him in and Aramis drew a great gasping breath and clasped Porthos around the shoulders and let Porthos envelop him in a long hug.

Eventually, Porthos disengaged and held Aramis by the arms in front of him. “By God, I’ve no idea how to make it work, but I promise you I shall do the best I can. I only ask that you promise to do the same.”

“I do, my friend. I do.” Aramis swore vehemently. “Thank you.”

“And I as well,” Athos said from where he was seated. He heaved a great sigh. “I suppose we have done crazier things.”

“You think?” D’Artagnan eyed him, brow raised.

Athos paused, then shook his head. “Hmm. No, actually, I believe this _is_ the craziest thing we have ever done.”

D’Artagnan rolled his eyes, but he grinned up at Aramis. “Fine. If they're in, I'm in. All for one, eh?”

“Thank you,” Aramis said, gazing at them in turn. "Thank you."

Athos tilted his head back, looking up at him. “I'll wager you won’t be thanking us the first time we issue a veto.”

Aramis bit his lip. He hoped that he would be able to submit to his friends’ judgement even if it disagreed with his own. In the passion of the moment it would not be easy.

“Nevertheless,” he said resolutely, “If you are all in agreement against me, I will comply.”

Athos stared into his eyes, then nodded, apparently satisfied. Porthos took his seat again. 

“We should sleep on it,” d’Artagnan said, stifling a yawn. “Work out the details tomorrow.”

The details, thought Aramis, as he sat down on the log and held his hands out to the fire, were likely to be every bit as embarrassing as tonight had been. He rubbed his face, reminding himself that this was necessary.

He felt a hand on his head and looked up to see Athos standing above him. He petted over Aramis’ short hair, rubbing the strands between his fingers. “Soft,” he murmured, “but I do miss the old you.” He quirked a sideways grin. “Your old hair, at least. We’ll see about the rest of it.” He smoothed Aramis’ hair back, then turned away, walking toward the horses to fetch his bedroll.

Aramis looked across the fire toward Porthos and d’Artagnan. Porthos had taken out his knife and was scraping away at a piece of wood. He wasn’t much of a whittler, so Aramis wasn’t sure what he thought he was doing.

“It’ll be all right, you know,” d’Artagnan said, getting to his feet. Aramis looked at him and he smiled. “You’re going to be fine.”

Aramis nodded, even though he wasn’t sure it was true. “I know. Thank you, d'Artagnan.”

“What about you? Are you ready to turn in?”” Aramis asked, once d’Artagnan had retired. 

Porthos glanced at him, then returned his attention to the piece of misshapen wood in his hands. “Soon. Maybe not quite yet.” Which in Porthos-speak meant, _I could go to bed now, but if you want me to stay up and keep you company I’m willing to do that_.

“Good,” Aramis said. “So, tell me something.”

“What?”

“Anything. Tell me something that happened when I was in the abbey. Tell me something that has nothing to do with me.”

Porthos frowned down at the wooden shape in his hand. Aramis thought it was possibly a man, or a – chicken? He wasn’t sure. Porthos sliced off what appeared to be an arm. Most likely not a man then. At least, Aramis hoped not.

“Well, there was a spy ring at court. Another one. And d’Artagnan had to make love to one of the courtiers to insinuate himself among them. Constance was beside herself, you can imagine. And then he was found out and they kidnapped him, so we had to rescue him, of course. There was fighting, and some people died.” Porthos shrugged. “Pretty much the usual sort of thing, for us.”

“I don’t care. Tell me about it. Spare no detail.”

Aramis leaned forward eagerly, not wanting to miss a word.


End file.
